


Like Something from Andy Warhol's Pornographic Period

by Isagel



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dominance/submission, Enemy Lovers, Humiliation, M/M, Object Insertion, RPF, Rival Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:33:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Slore', Johnny had said on tv, making it a charming joke, but here he has no compunction about spelling out the words. About making sure Evan knows he means them, knows that they're true. By the time Johnny is done with him, he can usually feel them, carved all the way into his bones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Something from Andy Warhol's Pornographic Period

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work of fiction. To my knowledge, nothing even remotely like this has ever transpired between these two people in reality.
> 
> This story came into being because my friend V and I have a running joke about Evan and Coca-Cola and never cease to find it amusing how conscientious he is about promoting his sponsors. A bit to my surprise, though, the fic turned out to be an entirely serious piece of kink.

"You don't even like Coke," Evan says weakly, watching as Johnny takes another long swig from the bottle, his pink lips wrapping obscenely around the neck of it, his Adam's apple dipping and rising as he swallows.

Johnny lowers the bottle (Evan can swear he sees a flash of tongue, stroking along the rim of the glass before it leaves his mouth) and smiles at him. A thin, wicked smile that skims over every one of the pressure points in Evan that only he knows how to find.

"No, but you do," he says. The bottle comes to rest against his thigh, condensation from the cold glass forming a circle of moisture on his black pants, right where Evan might rub his cheek if Johnny gave him permission. "In fact, you 'like' it so much that I've had to listen to you telling every reporter who gave you a moment's leeway all about its amazing properties every day of this competition. So, I thought, since you're so into it, we should have some Coke. Take your clothes off."

There is no change in Johnny's voice between the rest of his speech and the last sentence, the order casual, given as a matter of course. As if there is no possibility that Evan might not comply. That only makes it so much better.

Evan strips - quickly, efficiently - letting his clothes fall onto the hotel room floor. He sees Johnny watching him, hates that his body is already making it impossible to deny how much he wants this.

"We?" he asks, mostly to distract himself from the detached weight of Johnny's gaze, but it has occurred to him that there's only one bottle.

"Well," Johnny says, getting up from the arm of the sofa where he's been sitting, the motion sudden and liquid all at once. The bottle dangles in his hand as he steps closer, the red of the label bright against the black of his clothes, exactly coordinated with the color of his designer shoes, a bizarre and perfect accessory. He stops in front of Evan, tilting his head back to look up into his face. "I say 'we', but..." He raises the bottle between them, and tilts it, letting the bottom edge of it touch low on Evan's stomach. It's ice cold, and Evan sucks in a sharp breath, shivering with the near pain of the sudden chill. Johnny smiles at him, so sweetly, and trails the bottle upwards, drawing a slow, frozen trail across Evan's skin. Evan wants to pull away, but he can't. "...I will be having the actual Coke."

Evan doesn't even know what that's supposed to mean, but the tone of Johnny's voice is enough to frighten him, and the fear is tangled somewhere inside him with the beautiful ache in his nerves when Johnny rolls the cold bottle back and forth over his nipple, and he still hasn't found a way to explain to himself why that tangle of emotion and sensation makes him harder than anything else in the world. Only knows that he needs it, needs whatever Johnny thinks he deserves.

"Johnny," he says. "I..."

Johnny pulls the bottle away and takes a step back.

"On your knees," he says.

Evan's knees buckle almost before his brain can process the command. Nothing graceful or dignified, just an eager scramble towards the floor at Johnny's feet. He almost says thank you, but he bites his tongue around the embarrassment of the words. He's not quite that far gone, yet.

Johnny knows, though. Johnny knows everything, the knowledge obvious as amusement and scorn in his eyes.

"I always like this look on you," he says, tracing the bottle along the line of Evan's jaw. Evan presses his cheek against it, rubs his face against the glass, unable not to beg for contact. "Eager slut really is your default setting, isn't it?"

Slore, Johnny had said on tv, making it a charming joke, but here he has no compunction about spelling out the words. About making sure Evan knows he means them, knows that they're true. By the time Johnny is done with him, he can usually feel them, carved all the way into his bones.

He feels his face flush, and makes some sort of noise in his throat, a whimper, maybe. Johnny takes it as a sound of agreement.

"Yes," he says, nodding. "Yes, you know exactly what you are, don't you? Always willing to sell yourself to the highest bidder for just a taste of what they've got to offer. You want a taste of this, Evan?" He shakes the bottle next to Evan's ear, the sound of the soda inside it slushing against its walls loud enough so close up that it could be waves against the shore. "I bet you do."

He raises the bottle to his lips again, and takes another drink, holding the fluid in his mouth for a moment, swirling it around on his palate like it's some fancy wine before swallowing it down. Then he leans over, and grabs Evan by the hair. A hard grip, no hesitation about causing pain, using it to force Evan's head back. Evan groans, struggling helpless for a second before arching into the pull - he always forgets how strong Johnny is, and the angle is brutal, or would be if he didn't have a figure skater's flexibility to fall back on. Johnny smiles, literally standing over him, one foot on either side of Evan's knees to let him close enough to bend Evan's entire torso backwards just with his hand in his hair.

"Yeah, that's right," Johnny says, his breath brushing Evan's cheek. "Work for it like a good little whore."

Evan's hips thrust helplessly upward, nearly pulling a muscle with the sudden surge of need, but Johnny holds on to him, holds him down, the pain in his scalp unbearable and perfect, and then Johnny's mouth is on his.

The kiss is slow, and deep, and ruthlessly gentle. Sweet like the taste of Coke on Johnny's tongue, on his teeth, at the corners of his mouth. Evan chases the sweetness, hunts for it with lips and tongue, lets Johnny paint it into his own mouth with every lick and twist, every soft slide of their kiss, this kiss that Johnny is allowing him to have. When Johnny at last pulls away, Evan tries to follow, tries to keep their lips together. Johnny twists his fingers in Evan's hair, a reminder.

"Greedy," he says, the word whispering across Evan's lips, into his open mouth. "It's really quite pathetic how you just can't get enough, isn't it?"

Evan shudders, eyes closed against the shame.

"Please," he says. Not even knowing what he's asking for. Maybe it's for Johnny to take pity, to be nicer. Maybe it's for Johnny to say it all again.

Johnny lets go of him completely and steps back.

"Hands and knees," he says.

And yes, yes, Evan is a slut, because he can't bend over fast enough, can barely resist the urge to press his forehead, his lips, against the bright red leather of Johnny's shoes.

"Mmmm, yes," Johnny says above him, moving to circle Evan's body, letting the bottle trail carelessly over his exposed back. "Ass up in the air, just like you were meant to be. Willing to take it from anyone who comes along. Willing to beg for it. You're going to beg me for it tonight, aren't you, Evan?"

Evan bites his lip, presses his eyes shut.

"Aren't you?" Johnny asks again, harder, demanding. The Coke bottle taps once against the curve of Evan's ass, not with force, but as emphasis.

"Yes, Johnny," he says.

There is another tap of the bottle, on the other side of his ass.

"Yes, what?" Johnny says.

Evan digs his fingers into the carpet, forces himself to say the words.

"Yes, I'm gonna beg."

"Yes, you are," Johnny says, with absolute, brilliant confidence. Evan's cock is so hard, even in this position, it's pressing up against his stomach. "You know," Johnny continues, "there's still a bit of Coke left in the bottle. And you're right, I don't really like it as much as you do. So we're going to play a little game." The chill of the glass slides up the center of Evan's spine, up between his shoulder blades, and stops there. "I'm going to leave the bottle here." He lets go of it, the weight of it suddenly balanced on Evan's back. "And if it falls and spills, you can lick the contents up off the carpet. But if it's still standing there when I feel like picking it back up, I'll let you drink them out of my hand. I'd advise you to keep very still, but the truth is, you're such a dirty little bitch, I don't even know which option you'd prefer. Why don't you think it over, and I'll be right back."

Johnny's footsteps move away behind him, his tread muffled on the thick carpet. There is the sound of the bathroom door opening, but he doesn't hear it close. It wouldn't. Johnny never actually leaves him alone like this. Or at least he hasn't yet. There are sounds of Johnny rummaging through cabinets, though, so he's probably not watching Evan. Leaving him to his own thoughts.

The bottle is a solid presence on his back, the cold of it seeping through his skin, beginning to numb his nerves. Drops of condensation trickle from the glass onto him, tickling where they touch. If he shifted his muscles to ease the tickling, the bottle would fall.

He can imagine it, so clearly, the thud of the glass hitting the carpet, the rattle of it rolling away. The splash of brown liquid in a pool where it first fell. And Johnny would come out of the bathroom and make him lick it up. Clean up the mess with his tongue. If he hesitated, Johnny would force him. Johnny might press his foot, the sole of his red shoe, against the back of Evan's neck, and push his face down into the dirty carpet.

Just the thought makes him whimper, loud enough that Johnny can probably hear it in the bathroom. The bottle trembles on his back.

If it doesn't fall, though... If it doesn't fall, Johnny will pour the Coke into the palm of his hand and make Evan drink from it. Lap the soda up, on all fours like a dog. A good dog, Johnny's obedient bitch.

He's always an obedient bitch.

"You look like something from Andy Warhol's pornographic period," Johnny says from behind him, startling him. " _Iconic Sports Star with Coca-Cola Bottle_ , oil on canvas. Or maybe it should be a silkscreen print. The very essence of pop art, anyway." Evan can't see him, but he can picture him, backlit by the bathroom light, leaning up against the door frame. Elegant, in control. "I suppose this tableau means you're not going to make the bottle fall on purpose, hm?" He steps closer, back towards where Evan is kneeling. "But the thing is, this is too easy, isn't it? With your famous incredible physique, that celebrated Olympian stamina, you can hold that position for however long it takes, can't you? Not moving a fraction of an inch. That's not much of a challenge. And I know how you love overcoming challenges." There is a rustle, Johnny folding himself to the floor, settling on the carpet beside him. Placing some things he's brought from the bathroom down next to him. Evan would turn to look, but of course he can't. "So," Johnny says, and Evan hears a squirting noise, liquid from a plastic bottle. "I thought we'd make this a little more interesting." Johnny's fingers, slick with lube, slide between the cheeks of his ass.

"Fuck," Evan breathes, his head dropping down between his shoulders. "Johnny."

It feels so good, Johnny's touch brushing over his opening. Everything in him wants to push back for more.

"Yes," Johnny says. "I know you're a greedy slut, we already covered that. I know you want to fuck yourself on my fingers until you can't see straight. But being still isn't that hard. All it takes is a bit of determination. And you are such a determined man, aren't you, Evan? All you've got to do is give it one hundred and fifty percent." His finger shoves inside, one firm push, cruel and cutting like the tone of his voice, all the way up to the knuckle. "I know you can do that."

Evan could scream with the pleasure-pain of it, but screaming would be movement, and he can't move. If a minute ago he could have chosen to, Johnny has changed the rules now, and dislodging the bottle from its place on his back would mean losing, would mean not doing his best. He forces himself to breathe calmly, steadily, in and out. Johnny adds another finger, stroking around his inner walls, opening him up.

"You know it's ridiculous, of course," Johnny says. "The lengths you'll go to in order to please me, to please anyone with authority over you." His fingers curl against Evan's prostate, and every muscle in Evan's body shivers underneath the skin, but he keeps still. "Oh, that's good," Johnny comments, doing the same thing again. "I wasn't sure you could take that. I wonder what Frank would say if he knew what excellent uses you're finding for that willpower of yours that he's so proud of?"

Evan does shake at that, a raw shudder that the bottle only weathers because he corrects his balance with a shift of his weight. The thought of Frank knowing, of Frank seeing him like this... He can't imagine anything more humiliating.

"Please," he says. "Johnny, please."

"Yes," Johnny says, as though he knows what Evan's asking for, when he doesn't even know himself. His fingers fuck Evan harder, deeper, every push grinding against just the right spot.

It's weird, but being still, being forced to only feel and accept and not react, the sensations are purer, more intense, his awareness of how Johnny is using him vivid in a way he's never known it before. After a while it's almost relaxing, to take, and take, and beg to take more, being nothing but a greedy hole, unmoving, open to be filled. The shame of it seeping through the layers of his skin like the cold from the iced bottle on his back.

When Johnny pulls his fingers out, he practically whines at the loss of them.

Johnny laughs at him.

"Oh, don't worry," he says. Evan can hear him wiping his fingers clean, can smell some kind of disinfectant. He knows on some level that this is just Johnny being his usual clean-freak self, but it still makes him feel dirty. Which makes Johnny be more obvious about it. "I'm far from done with your bony ass yet. But you've been such a good little whore, I think it's time for your reward."

He gets to his feet, and snatches the bottle up from Evan's back.

The Coca-Cola red shoes step into his field of vision, and then Johnny is squatting down in front of him, forearms resting on his thighs, the bottle dangling from his hands between them. Evan is distracted, though, by the perfect view he's getting of Johnny's crotch, the hardness straining against the zipper of his skin-tight pants. Johnny is so centered, so detached, it's easy to forget that he wants this, that having Evan here, like this, turns him on. Evan never quite believes it until Johnny is balls deep inside him, and even then, Johnny sometimes makes him beg for every thrust. Evan always does.

He licks his lips, thinks about moving, now that he can, about rubbing his face between Johnny's legs.

Johnny grabs him by the jaw, and tilts his chin up sharply. Bringing them eye to eye.

"Ah-ah," he says, a firm admonition, harsh like his gaze, like the iron grip of his fingers on Evan's face. "You have a long way to go before you've earned _that_ reward."

"I'm sorry," Evan says, and Johnny smiles at him. He is almost unbearably beautiful.

"Yes, you are," he says, and Evan feels it, what a sorry human being he is, how weak and unworthy. He lowers his eyes.

Johnny's grip loosens, and his thumb strokes along the edge of Evan's jaw, rubs across the spot where it was just digging in.

"I hope you've brought concealer," he says. "Or you're going to get a lot of interesting questions after the exhibition tomorrow. What would you tell the press, hm? What would they all believe? Would they guess how you got such pretty bruises, crawling on your knees? Would they know how you feel when you look at them in the mirror?" He leans in, leans down, his hand still cupping Evan's face, putting his mouth to Evan's ear. "I know," he says, a whisper like a secret between them, too dirty to be spoken out loud. "I know how you'll run your fingers over them in front of the glass, and I know exactly how you'll feel."

Evan trembles, tilting his face into Johnny's hand. Sometimes, out in their everyday lives, he hates Johnny for having that knowledge, for being able to look at him and see him like this. But here, now, he is so thankful for the understanding that he could crawl out of his own skin with gratitude.

If no one else ever sees him for what he really is, at least Johnny always will.

Johnny's fingers brush through his hair, gentle for just a moment.

"You getting thirsty?" he says, and Evan's mouth is suddenly dry. He nods beneath Johnny's touch.

Johnny shifts back, and holds his hand out, a few inches from Evan's face. He raises the bottle, and pours the last of the Coke into the cup of his upturned palm. His hand isn't quite large enough to hold all of it, dark brown liquid running over the edges of the makeshift bowl, falling onto the floor.

Evan glances up at Johnny's face. His eyes are on his Coke filled hand, his expression impassive, but for once it looks as though he has to work not to show what he's thinking.

It strikes Evan that this is hard for him. It's not his carpet, but it's still difficult for him to deliberately watch it stain and not clean it up. And he's trying to hide it for Evan's sake.

Something in his chest clenches, a tight ache he doesn't know how to describe.

"Go on," Johnny says, looking at him, motioning with a tilt of his head towards his hand.

Evan's heart is beating so fast, all he hears is the pounding of it in his ears.

He holds Johnny's gaze, a long moment, willing him to see.

"Thank you," he says, and bends his head. Past the offered bowl of Johnny's hand, all the way down to the floor. He puts his tongue out and licks at the small, round drop of spilled Coke.

The texture of the carpet is rough and disgusting, but all he tastes is the sugar of the soda.

Johnny makes a sound in his throat - a gasp, a whimper. Surprised. Out of the corner of his eye, Evan sees the empty bottle set down on the floor, and then Johnny's hand is on the back of his neck, a warm weight.

"Can't let a single drop get away from you, can you, slut?" he says. His voice is rough around the edges; almost, for a second, unsteady. "Even if you have to lick it off the floor like the filthy bitch you are." His hand squeezes hard around Evan's neck. "Revolting."

Evan almost comes, right there, panting into the carpet.

"Up," Johnny says, easing the pressure of his hand, but not taking it away. Evan lifts his head, and Johnny shoves his other hand, still filled to the brim with Coke, in front of his face. "Rinse your dirty mouth."

Evan puts his lips to Johnny's palm, and drinks. A long draft, first, and it is good, washing the feel of carpet fiber off his tongue. Then, as the liquid drains away, he laps at Johnny's skin, traces the lines in his palm where the soda lingers with the tip of his tongue. Greedy, seeking out every residue. Beneath the sugar and the cola, there is the taste of Johnny, salty and rich, another gift for him to uncover beneath the layer of the first.

"That's it," Johnny says, his thumb stroking firm behind Evan's ear. "Lick it all up. Lick my fingers clean."

Evan moans against his skin, and Johnny's fingers press against his lips. He opens up instantly and Johnny pushes two fingers inside. Evan closes his eyes and sucks them, works them with his tongue until there is no sugar left to taste. Then Johnny feeds him two fingers more.

He almost chokes on them, on having his whole mouth stuffed full with Johnny's hand, but he loves it, as much as he loved Johnny's fingers up his ass. He rubs the flat of his tongue against Johnny's knuckles, and Johnny's blunt fingernails dig hard into his neck. He can imagine the crescent marks, how he'll have to cover them up tomorrow like the bruises. How Johnny will look at him when he takes to the ice and know that they're there. Will see them, no matter how many layers of make-up he puts on.

He groans around Johnny's fingers, and Johnny pulls them away. Pulls both his hands away and stands up.

"Be a good bitch and roll over," he says.

Evan does as he's told, turning over to lie on his back on the carpet, taking the opportunity to stretch his legs out.

Above him, Johnny is wiping his hands again, deliberately scrubbing the fingers that have just been in Evan's mouth with a tissue drenched in something that smells like alcohol. The gesture is hurtful, in a way that makes Evan squirm on the floor, his balls pull impossibly tighter.

Johnny's lips curve; a knowing, disdainful smile that makes Evan squirm harder. He lobs the tissue into the waste-paper basket standing by the desk, and bends to pull out another from the box he brought from the bathroom, soaks this one in disinfectant, too. Evan isn't sure where this is going, but then Johnny picks up the Coke bottle again, and wipes it very carefully down.

Evan knows, then, knows before Johnny trashes the tissue and picks up a condom, before he pulls it out of its wrapper and starts to roll it down with efficient fingers to stretch over the clean glass. Before he reaches for the lube and spreads it with thorough, clinical motions over the rubber. He knows exactly what Johnny is intending, and he can't help it, but his legs fall open at the thought, thighs spreading wide. Wider when Johnny steps between them. His cock twitches uncontrollably against his belly, smearing precome over his skin.

"Oh, you really are a whore for this, aren't you, Evan?" Johnny says, waving the bottle. Through the sheer cover of latex, the red label is blindingly bright against his black shirt. "Don't worry. Everybody already knows that." He nudges the back of Evan's thigh with the tip of his shoe and adds, "Wider."

Evan pulls his knees up higher, makes his muscles relax enough that he can fold his thighs out all the way to lie flat against the floor.

"Hmmm," Johnny breathes, his eyes raking over Evan with an appreciative sigh. "If you're going to be a slut, why not be a flexible slut? Such admirable work ethic."

He kneels down between Evan's legs, sitting back on his haunches, his straight-backed position self-contained, almost prim. Unsoiled.

He lays his hand on the inside of Evan's thigh.

"Please," Evan says.

Johnny touches the top of the bottle to his opening, rubs the slippery, rubber-covered glass up and down along the crack of his ass.

"Johnny," Evan breathes. "Please."

Johnny pushes the bottle inside him. Just the thin neck of it, and Evan is still loosened from before. It's barely even a breach, more a promise of what he could have. He moans, and tries to push down onto it.

Johnny's hand on his thigh holds him still.

The bottle twists within him, the hard edges of it scraping around his insides as Johnny slowly turns it.

"You know," he says, looking down at where the bottle disappears into Evan's body. "I should really go get a camera. I bet the Coca-Cola Company's publicity department would love a shot of this. Just think of the promotional posters they could make." He looks up, straight into Evan's eyes, and twists the bottle again. Sparks ignite along Evan's nerves as it grinds against his prostate. He can't hold back a gasp, his fingers clawing at the carpet. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Johnny says. "What better endorsement could they ask for than the look on your face right now?"

Evan drops his head back to the floor, his face red with embarrassment, with need.

"God, Johnny. Don't…"

"Don't what?" Johnny asks. "Don't tease?" He pulls the bottle almost all the way out of Evan's ass, the flare of glass at the mouth of it catching against the inside of the ring of muscle. "Don't treat you like you deserve to be treated?" He twists the bottle again, letting it caress Evan from the inside. "Tell me what you want."

"Johnny, please. I… Please."

"Please what, Evan? Use your words."

He squeezes his eyes shut, turning his face away, and forces the words out. It takes all the willpower he has.

"Please fuck me with the bottle."

"Why?" Johnny says coolly.

At first, Evan can't quite process the question.

"What?" he manages to ask.

Johnny speaks slowly, clearly, as if to a small child or an idiot.

"Tell me why I should fuck you with a Coke bottle. Tell me why you want it."

Evan shakes his head, tries to bury his face in the carpet.

"No, Johnny, please. I can't…"

"Look at me," Johnny says. Then, sharper, digging his fingers into Evan's thigh: "Evan, look at me."

The rush of pain is what makes it possible for him to turn his head, to open his eyes.

When he does, Johnny leans over him, leans closer, shifting his hand from Evan's thigh to rest it on the floor by his chest so that he can crouch above him, face to face, or as near as he can get while still keeping the bottle where it is.

"It's all right," he says, and his voice, his eyes are so soft. "I know. You can tell me, Evan. I already know. All you have to do is say it out loud." He pushes the bottle inwards again, giving Evan just a little more of what he's asking for. "Why do you want this?"

Evan blinks, trying to clear the sudden film of moisture from his eyes.

"I…" He licks his lips, starts again, looking into Johnny's eyes, Johnny's beautiful eyes that see this. He can say it. "Because I'm a dirty slut."

"Yes," Johnny says, nodding. The bottle sinks deeper into him. "Tell me."

"Because I'm a greedy whore who wants everything he can get. Anything. A greedy, filthy, pathetic little whore who can't get enough, who would take anything, do anything… God! _Johnny!_ "

The bottle surges into him, all the way up to its tapered waistline in one hard shove, and he arches up off the floor like a man electrocuted, nearly knocking Johnny over in his flailing.

It's so good, so good to be filled and held open, and then Johnny is crawling up his body, letting go of the bottle, because now that Evan's ass has closed around the narrow part of it, it isn't going anywhere. He rolls his hips, letting himself feel the thick, hard presence inside him, reveling in it. Johnny, kneeling above him, now, straddling his waist, grins and strokes Evan's hair back from his forehead.

"Yes, go on," he says. "Take it. Take it like the slut you are."

Evan groans and writhes beneath him, flexes his muscles around the glass, massaging his own insides with it. It's different now that Johnny has made him confess, nothing standing between him and the endless, shameful string of things he needs. They both know how dirty he is; he can wallow in it, sink into the pleasure without holding anything back, all self-control gone.

Johnny slides his hand over Evan's face, drags his thumb over his lips, his panting mouth. Evan tries to catch it with his tongue, wanting.

"The thing with a greedy bitch like you, though," Johnny says, "is that you're never going to be satisfied with just one hole filled when you've got two. Isn't that right?"

Evan has to swallow down the savage flash of hunger before he can make his throat work right for words.

"Yes," he says, and he sounds so eager in his own ears, so painfully needy it makes his eyes sting, but he is, oh, God, he is. "Please, Johnny, please let me."

"God, you're pathetic," Johnny says, like a slap to the face. But he reaches for the fly on his pants.

He scoots closer, leaning over Evan's face, and pulls his cock out. Hard and beautiful and Evan lifts his head off the carpet, trying to reach.

"Easy," Johnny says, and his hand slips around the back of Evan's head, fingers tightening in his hair. His other hand grabs his cock, drags the wet tip of it over Evan's lips. Evan strains to taste it, struggling against the pull on his hair that keeps him from taking it into his mouth. Savoring the pain like he's savoring the fullness of his ass, the streak of Johnny's precome smeared across his chin.

"Fuck, I can't believe you," Johnny says. His voice sounds choked, ragged, and his fist squeezes almost viciously around his own shaft, as if he's trying to hold himself back.

Evan doesn't want him to hold back. The thought of Johnny coming right now, like this, all over his face, is almost enough to tip him over the edge, too.

But then Johnny is pushing the last bit of the way forward, and his cock is between Evan's lips, on his tongue, invading him, and all he can do is open wider, pull air in through his nose, and give everything up. Johnny's hand in his hair is holding him still, giving him no room to maneuver at all, and there is no mercy in the way Johnny's cock slams home. It's rough, and brutal, and Evan's eyes are wet with so much gratitude. He stops struggling, makes himself relax until all there is in the universe is Johnny's cock in his mouth, the bottle in his ass, and the demanding rhythm of Johnny fucking into him. Filling him up, like he aches to be filled; telling him, in half broken snatches of speech between every thrust, all the truths he needs to hear. That he is dirty, that he is a whore. That he is a filthy, beautiful, cock-sucking whore, that he'll take it whatever way Johnny wants to give it and beg for more. That Johnny knows, that Johnny has him. That Johnny isn't letting go.

When Johnny comes, it's with his cock as far down Evan's throat as it can possibly go, Evan's face pressed against his groin. Evan swallows, and swallows, a stream of silent _thank you_ s running on a loop inside his head. There are no other thoughts.

After a moment, Johnny eases Evan's head down to the floor and stretches out beside him. Supple and loose-limbed, hot and radiant with the residue of his climax. He settles his leg over Evan's, runs his fingers over Evan's chest. The soft waves of his hair tickle across Evan's collar bone as he leans up and puts his mouth to Evan's ear.

"You can come now, if you want," he says.

Evan sucks in a breath, suddenly aware of his own throbbing erection, of how long he's been hard.

He turns his head to look at Johnny. This close up, his irises are more green than anything. There is a fleck of smudged mascara on the thin, pale skin beneath his eye.

"Go on," Johnny says. "Let me see."

And that's the catch, of course. Johnny isn't going to bring him off. Johnny prefers to watch him do it himself. Likes to drive him to the edge where he can't not, even though the thought of someone seeing him like that, seeing him desperate and starving to come, makes him want to sink through the ground in shame.

"Johnny…"

Johnny's palm strokes across his nipple, the sensation traveling directly to his cock, to his aching balls.

"You've been such a good little slut," Johnny says, "you deserve to come like one. Show me how you're gagging for it."

He makes a noise of protest, somewhere deep in his throat, but his hand is already closing around his cock.

"Yeah, you like that, don't you?" Johnny says. "Cock in hand and ass stuffed full of whatever you can find to fill you up. Let me see how good it is." But he isn't looking at where Evan is touching himself; his eyes are locked on Evan's face.

And the thing is, the thing that turns the screw one more time until the sweet, cruel tightness of it is unbearable is that this is what Evan thinks about, in his own bed back home in LA when the lights are out and he's lying hard beneath the sheets, stroking his own cock like he's stroking it now. What he thinks about is Johnny, watching him, how dirty he would feel if Johnny were watching him, what a slut he is for wanting Johnny to watch him, how ashamed he is for being such a slut. Here, now, he wants to close his eyes, hide all that from Johnny's sharp gaze, but Johnny is watching, and he's a shameless whore who wants to be watched, and the shame of knowing that, of Johnny knowing that, is a heavy heat in his balls and a fire in his veins, and he's so close to coming, so close.

"Sssh," Johnny says. "Hold on."

And Evan can't, not much longer, but Johnny scoots down his body, just far enough to reach between his legs, and, _oh_ , that's the bottle, moving inside him, so good, so incredibly good, and Johnny looks up at him, looks up at him and says,

"What are you waiting for, bitch?"

The orgasm hits him like the ice when he falls, knocking everything out of him, and just in the moment when it does, Johnny yanks the bottle from his body. Every nerve and every synapse whites out with pleasure. He's pretty sure that he screams, wails like a fucking banshee, but he's too far gone to hear the sound. He shakes, and shakes, and can't stop shaking.

He's vaguely aware of Johnny moving, but he's not in a fit state to open his eyes and check.

What drags him back in the end is a clanking sound like of glass against metal. Johnny disposing of the Coke bottle in the waste basket.

He shifts a little, stretching his limbs, and Johnny - zipped up and put together again, only a deeper blush of color on his cheeks revealing that anything has happened - turns towards him.

"Christ, you look fucking wrecked," he says. It sounds insulting, and weirdly proud. "Here."

He tosses Evan the box of tissues, and Evan catches it, grabbing a wad of paper to swipe at the come stains on his belly. He starts to sit up, meaning to put the dirty tissues in the trash, but Johnny says,

"Oh, for heaven's sake, don't get up, or you'll fall over." Which, okay, might be true, considering how erratic his pulse feels, how his muscles are still twitching beneath the skin.

Johnny picks the trash can up and holds it out to him, and he throws the tissues in. He feels disoriented, like he's caught in a spin he can't quite manage to stop. Like he's jumping, too weightless to fall back to the ice.

"Honestly," Johnny says, crossing the room to the couch. There's a blanket there, thrown over the back of it, and he picks it up. Turns back to Evan. "I have to tell you, not even Scott Hamilton would believe you could do your freeskate right now."

Evan feels his cheeks heat, fresh embarrassment mixing with the flaring memory of everything he's just done, spreading like warmth deep in his belly.

"Oh," Johnny says, watching his face, making big doe-eyes of fake innocence. "Is that an awful slur on your masculinity?" He squats down next to Evan, sweeping the blanket over him. He hadn't realized he was getting cold, but the shaking evens out almost immediately. "I'll have to remember that, for next time." Johnny tilts his head, looking at Evan with a thoughtful expression. "Maybe I should invite Scott to watch."

"Johnny!" Evan says, scandalized, speared by his own predictable reaction. But he's laughing, and Johnny is, too, and beneath the laughter, there is the purity, the weightlessness of the moment, and between the two of them, there is the anchoring rope of his humiliation. Keeping him down.


End file.
